


Interference

by MyMisguidedFairytale



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Canon Compliant, Chairman Election Arc (Hunter X Hunter), Character Study, Chemistry, F/M, Gift Fic, Good Writing, Internal Monologue, Introspection, One Shot, Sound Check, Tech Support
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-06 04:40:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18843835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyMisguidedFairytale/pseuds/MyMisguidedFairytale
Summary: She puts extra effort into her performance, just for him.She can’t pinpoint it, the exact place where Pariston’s light meets the shadows. She turns the microphone over to switch it off, and the low whine of interference sounds over the speakers for a moment.She supposes it’s the same place where sound meets silence.





	Interference

**Author's Note:**

> _Interference_ was originally written and published on October 11, 2014 on [tumblr](https://cheadle-yorkshire.tumblr.com/post/99758437527/fanfiction-hunter-x-hunter-interference).
> 
> Everything below is preserved as it was originally posted:
> 
> **Title** : Interference  
>  **Pairing** : Pariston x Piyon  
>  **Word Count** : 1637  
>  **Summary** : She puts extra effort into her performance, just for him.  
>  **For** : zumisumi  
>  **A/N** : Takes place during the Chairman Election arc.

_**Interference** _

Her low heels click across the wide tiled floors of the stage. _Click, click, click_. She listens to the sound reverberate around the amphitheater. The lights fade sharply, before slowly rising back to their prior brightness. Piyon walks from the back of the stage to the front; they will need to see her better, to know what lighting looks best from the seats.

On the stage she marks four places with thin pieces of black tape, one for each chair. Someone from maintenance will bring in the chairs tomorrow morning, but for now, the rest of the setup is her responsibility.

She raises the microphone to her lips. There is the briefest whine of interference.

“Check one,” she says, and winces at the sound. The balance from the speakers is too skewed, and she tries again, singing it instead into the microphone. There is too much reverberation.

“Check—”

She stomps her feet, moving to the edge of the stage. Has the attendant completely left the booth? There should be someone there, making adjustments to all the different technical aspects of tomorrow’s impending spectacle. It has been some time since there were any changes to the lighting. Perhaps they stepped out for a break? She stomps her feet again, kicking at an imagined speck of dust on the black tile. The sound needs to be perfect. The Hunters deserve nothing but the best, after all.

“Hello- _o_?” She shouts it into the microphone, sighing and propping her spare hand on her hip when there is yet again no response.

She is just about ready to go back to the booth and find out for herself what’s holding up her assistant when she sees a figure walking down the side aisle. The lights are still dimmed, and he’s wearing solid, muted colors, but there’s no mistaking Pariston Hill’s dark, withdrawn eyes and secretive smile.

“What’re you doing here?” The volume in her microphone is too inconsistent, so she taps it against one palm before raising it back to her lips. “This area is closed for stage blocking. Please exit the amphitheatre.”

He spreads his arms and says something—she can see his lips move—but from where she stands on the stage she cannot hear him.

“What?” She cups her free hand around her ear for maximum effect. Still, she can’t hear what he’s saying, and maybe he’s whispering on purpose, she wouldn’t put it past him, so she skips over to the bank of stairs on the far side of the stage and moves down them into the floor of the theatre. The seats are plain and austere, but the way the chair backs appear to undulate and move up the slope of the floor, hit with just the barest of bright stage lighting, remind Piyon of some sort of creature. By the time she reaches Pariston, he’s taken a seat in the very front, crossing one leg over the other and looking not the least bit out of place.

His eyes roam the stage, taking in the marked spots for the chairs and microphone stands. His lips purse.

“Oh, that won’t do,” he says. “That won’t do at all.”

“Why are you here?” Piyon steps into place in front of him, effectively blocking his view of the stage with her body. “You’re not supposed to be here. Which probably answers the question. But _still_ ,” she huffs, settling her free hand on her hip. “Are you even listening to me?”

“Of course,” he says. “You’re quite loud.” He smiles—one of those devastating ones that would work on just about anyone else, but Piyon likes to think she’s been conditioned to ignore it by now, and the almost-insult to her voice helps—and continues, “Don’t let me keep you from your work. I promise I won’t get in your way.”

“And allowing you to remain any longer would give you an unfair advantage over the other candidates,” Piyon says, as sweetly as she can muster. “So get out.”

“What if I said I wasn’t here because of that? Maybe I’m just here to see you.”

And she doesn’t believe it, not even for half a second, but before she can tell him off again a loud crash echoes from the back of the amphitheater, up by the doors to the sound booth. Piyon grimaces, before shoving her microphone into Pariston’s unsuspecting hands.

“I’m going to go see what that was about. You hold onto this and make yourself useful. Say something into it every few seconds while I adjust the audio.”

She skips up the aisle, finding one of her assistants hastily trying to pack-up the contents of a spilled cardboard box. The carefully wrapped wires of the microphone stands for each of the candidates and the moderators for the next day’s session are tangled beyond what her eyes can follow.

From the auditorium, Pariston’s voice softly calls out, “Ah, Piyon? Is this good?”

With him holding onto the microphone, she can trust that he won’t be as easily swayed into disrupting any of her carefully arranged work. In addition, she’ll always be able to track his position if he were to move around.

“That’s fine! Keep it up!” she shouts back, so loud that her chest hurts.

“My, my, do you even need the microphone?” His own voice comes out as a murmur, still perfectly audible through the microphone. He clicks his tongue a few times, as if increasingly satisfied by how grating it sounds.

“You deal with this,” she tells her assistant, gesturing towards the box. “Meet the guys delivering the tables backstage and set them up where I’ve marked for the ballot box. I’ll handle the rest of the sound check.”

He scurries out—it’s common for the Association to hire out basic office or technical work, and many of those on the payroll take the jobs to better prepare for a future Exam, like this one, if her memory serves. She steps into the booth and assesses the settings.

“Piyonnnn.” He stretches out the last syllable, and then she can hear some odd sounds, like he’s tapping the top of the microphone with his fingertips. “Check, one, two, three…”

He’s mocking the way she said it earlier, she realizes, halfway through the process of adjusting the sound. He must have been listening in on her session for longer than she realized. And she’d thought the auditorium had been completely closed off.

She sighs and finishes her work. Nothing is closed off to Pariston, if he decides that he wants it.

Piyon pauses in the doorway to the auditorium. The strange lilt of Pariston’s voice has been replaced with the sound of his breathing. In the space between his proclamations, it is the only sound that remains. The rasp of each inhale, amplified, sounds like something crawling over the air. Crawling up the chairs and up each narrow concrete step to coil around her feet.

Piyon doesn’t even realize that her own breathing has synchronized with his until he speaks again.

“—Piyon? You didn’t leave, did you?” When his head turns and he scans the auditorium, looking for her, Piyon forces her feet to move and takes the steps in uneven paces, moving to the row behind his when he beckons her forward with one raised arm.

“Of course not.” Her voice is soft only because she’s saving it. Not because with the way his head is tilted up towards her, the sound of his breathing returns. The creature does not live in the air. It’s under the strain of the pinstripes running down Pariston’s back. It’s in the eyes looking up at her with curiosity. Waiting.

“Give me that back.” She reaches for the microphone, but he pulls it back, and when she leans over the chairs to reach for it again he lifts his free hand and grasps the back of her neck, pulling her head down beside his.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says. “Can you do something for me?”

A flash of irritation wells up inside her. He’s barely even looking at her; the bulk of his focus seems to be directed at some point on the empty stage, lit perfectly. He had to pull her down to see it at his level—he couldn’t sit up or stand to join her. From his seat he has a perfect view of where each of the candidates will be, seated at an angle. She wonders what he’s envisioning.

“I _could_. I also don’t _want_ to,” she answers. “What is it?”

She draws her gaze away from the stage and back to him. His eyes are so dark, even under the harshness of the auditorium lights, but the rest of his face and hair is lit as if from a halo.

His fingers catch in the curls of her hair as he releases her to point towards one of the tape-marked spots on the stage. “I want to sit on that side.” Piyon frowns.

“I’ll see what I can do.” She’s already planning on the opposite.

“Good.” He finally hands back the microphone, and it’s as if Piyon’s hands have forgotten how to hold it in the brief span she’s gone without it. Then, her fingers clench themselves into a fist around the microphone, and she considers beating Pariston over the head with it.

She can’t pinpoint it, the exact place where Pariston’s light meets the shadows. She turns the microphone over to switch it off, and the low whine of interference sounds over the speakers for a moment.

She supposes it’s the same place where sound meets silence.

And when she screams into the microphone the next day, she gets an inordinate amount of satisfaction from the way he covers his ears with both hands. She puts extra effort into her performance, just for him.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) The story was inspired in part by [kugukiugu's art of Pariston and Piyon](https://kugukiugu.tumblr.com/post/86765698213).
> 
> 2) Thank you for reading. I would appreciate and value your comments.


End file.
